Mother Burden

This is a rework of "Life's Soup"

A cup of soup for my mother

My mother took her flesh and put it in the soup. She cooked magic in the ancient tradition to cure her mother one last time.

-Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

What would I not do for you, Mother?

You waited after your first born, you did not

continue to a third. You loaned your lungs,

cut into a chest, placed a second heart. Mother,

you bred me to be your rival. You clayed

your face over mine, war paint to warn the world:

your voice will breathe on after your body

decays. You made me, clipped my vocal chords,

spoon fed me little bits and pieces:

a fingernail, a burnt bit of tongue

mashed into the supper potatoes.

Shall I be your harvest? Have I ripened

with age? I hope that incident where I clawed

at my ribs to see where she was hidden

not the daughter, but the woman - I hope that

hasn't spoiled the meat. I am a bit disappointed

you won’t take it raw. Does the soup

make it go down easier? Will the boiling broth

hide the warmth of flesh? Will the red bean

cover the taste of red iron? But you see Mother,

you made a mistake:

you gave too much. You've held me at your breast

since I was a child. Even then you molded my hips,

shaped my spine, painted on each freckle. You taught me

to smile when laughs could cut, trained me to filter

my tears. You were my pillow when I could not sleep,

devoted yourself to my operation for twenty years.

You gave too much, Mother! That day you were tinkering

with my skull, testing the texture, tenderizing

the lobes - you left your fingerprint on my frontal.

I am no longer borrowed parts, I can pull the stitches

out and I don’t unravel. Mother,

don’t you recognize yourself?